


Kneel

by MmeSatan



Series: Surveillance [4]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Soft Papa Emeritus II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 12:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MmeSatan/pseuds/MmeSatan
Summary: When Papa tells you he will have to punish you, he does not forget. Beatrice better show contrition if she wants to be forgiven.





	Kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratsmacabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratsmacabre/gifts).



   

 

 

    “Are you comfortable, cara? Is this too tight?” Papa slid a finger under the finished knot as he spoke, making sure the rope did not restrict Beatrice’s blood flow. She tugged at the red silk ropes, moving her wrists to test the restraints.

 

    “Not too much, thank you, Papa.” She shifted her weight, trying to find the most comfortable position allowed by the restraints he had put her in.

 

    “Very good.” He brushed the hair covering her left eye to the side and let his hand linger there. “What is our safe word, cara?” he said with the slightest inflection of amusement in his tone.

 

    She looked up at him, smiling. “ _Parrot_.”

 

    “Excellent. I will be back shortly.”

 

    With Papa gone to the bathroom, where she could hear him sing as he often did when he got ready, Beatrice was left to consider her current situation. She was kneeling on a prayer chair in the middle of Papa’s living room, naked, her hair tied in a neat ponytail. Her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, spread; her hands were bound together at the wrists as if in prayer, and to the armrest in front of her. It was uncomfortable, but Papa had bound her in worse positions before.

 

                        ---------------------

 

    The chair was French, dating back to the early 1900s. Papa had purchased it at an auction in Paris several years prior. He had been attracted to the intricate thorn pattern carved in the wood and the sturdiness of the design, and had spared no expense to win the bid.

 

    “A man of taste, I see,” the curator had commented while they watched over the packaging of the chair for transport. “This is a beautiful piece. The craftsmanship is _impeccable_ and the original upholstery is still in perfect condition. _Monsieur_ is a collector, I presume?” Papa’s only response had been a smirk.

 

    Returning home with the _prie-dieu_ , he had requested for it to be modified. The wood was given a darker, more modern stain; the burgundy velvet, replaced with fine black leather. The cross that adorned the front of the chair was removed and replaced by a Grucifix. Papa had later watched it burn in his fireplace, a smile on his lips and a glass of scotch in his hand.

 

                        ---------------------

 

    Beatrice stayed there, expectantly staring at the door for what felt like hours. When Papa finally came out, he was wearing his full ritual attire: mitre and chasuble, complete with face paint. Her breath caught at the sight before her; they had discussed the scene that was about to take place at length and she knew how he would be dressed, but she had underestimated how much it would turn her on.

 

    Without a word, Papa went to the corner of the room and selected a tall, rectangular object hidden under a dark sheet, placing it in front of Beatrice. “So I don’t miss anything,” he said simply, uncovering what turned out to be a full-length mirror.

 

    He stood behind her and she watched his reflection as his gloved hand slowly ran down her spine. She closed her eyes, enjoying the slightly rough texture and warmth of the leather against her skin. Then, without warning, he struck her ass cheek with the palm of his hand. She yelped and opened her eyes, and he struck again. _One, two, three_ spanks. Already, she could feel her skin flushing. _Four, five, six_. He stopped, his hand up, ready to strike. “Why don’t you show me how sorry you are, little one?” She nodded and began to recite, her voice unsure.

 

    “O My Papa, I am heartily sorry for having offended you.”

 

_Seven._

 

    “I detest all my transgressions because of your just punishments,”

 

_Eight._

 

    “but most of all because they offend you, My Papa,”

 

_Nine. Ten._

 

    “who are all powerful and worthy of my full submission.”

 

_Eleven._

 

    “I firmly re--”

 

    Number _twelve_ hit the other cheek and she stammered, gasping.

 

    “I firmly resolve, with the help of”

 

_Thirteen._

 

    “your guidance, to transgress no more”

 

_Fourteen. Fifteen._

 

    “and to avoid the near occasions of transgression.”

 

_Sixteen._

 

    “Nema.”

 

    Papa’s hand lingered on the flushed skin and he hummed, thinking, while she stayed quiet, nervous; feeling the stinging heat from his gloved hand. “I’m not sure I believe you, little one. Say it again, with more heart this time.”

 

    So Beatrice started to recite again. Papa, however, was not so nice as to spank between verses this time, hitting as she spoke instead. She was just past the halfway point when he reached for the metallic butt plug he had told her to wear, and pushed. She yelped, stopping for a second to regain her composure. Looking ahead, she saw his reflection and watched as he shook his head. “Start over, little one.”

 

    Attempt number three proved to be difficult, Papa standing just behind her, toying with the plug and staring at her through the mirror. Her voice was unsteady. All she could think about were his fingers, pulling and pushing ever so slightly on the toy. But this time she made it through, continuing even when he let his hand slide down from the plug and pressed his middle finger in.

 

    When she was done, he pulled it out, grinning at her obvious state of arousal. “Much better, little one. You may yet be forgiven.” He rubbed his finger along her slit, teasing. “Do you think you deserve more of this, cara?”

 

    Resisting the urge to moan, she shook her head. “No, Papa, I am not worthy.”

 

    “How honest of you,” he replied in an amused tone. He ran his free hand on her back, making her shiver. Then, suddenly, he asked again in his lower, more serious voice, “Do you _want_ more?”

 

    She nodded vigorously. “Please, Papa, I want, I _need-_ -”

 

    He did not make her wait, sliding in two fingers and slowly pumping them. “Is that good, little one?” He watched her through the mirror, eyes closed, biting her lip as she tried to push back against him. “Is this not better than what you can do yourself?” He upped the pace, moans escaping her lips as he did so. “Couldn’t you have waited for me? For this?” He knew exactly what the most sensitive spots were to rub with his gloved fingers, if only to prove his point. “Will you do it again, or will you be a good girl for Papa?”

 

    “I’ll be good, Papa, I promise, _please!_ ” Her eyes were pleading to him through the reflection; her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted, her pupils blown wide. With a grin, he removed his fingers and wiped them on her back. He removed his mitre and chasuble, laying them down carefully on a nearby chair before standing in front of her, gloriously naked. He held his cock in his hand and presented it to her: “Take this, all of it, and suck on it, for this is my manhood which I am offering to you.”

 

    Fighting the smile that threatened to take over a face that should have been serious and repenting, Beatrice replied, as she had been instructed: “Papa, I am not worthy that you should enter me, but say the word and my mouth shall be opened.”

 

    Eyes up, jaw dropped, tongue out as if waiting for communion, she let him enter past her lips. He wasted no time grabbing her hair at the roots, just above her neck, to control the pace at which his cock was sliding in and out of her mouth. But she was far from passive; Beatrice had a skilled tongue, as Papa put it, and she knew how to use it to please him. He might have been fully in control as usual, and his expression was carefully neutral, but the way the tip of her tongue worked the underside of his cock had even him struggling not to moan and buck his hips.

 

    The urge to bury himself deeper inside of her throat, to watch her take all of him, all at once was pressing, and Papa had to stop himself -- this was not the main event. As he pulled away, Beatrice’s lips popped off the tip of his cock and he grinned, taking a few steps back. His breath was visibly faster than usual, and, removing his gloves, he grabbed a bottle of lubricant from a table. Standing behind her once more, he slowly eased the plug out of her, and her breath hitched at the contact of his cold, lubed up fingers. They went in easy, and he nodded in approval as he finished getting her ready. He kneeled behind her, the outside of his thighs touching hers, the tip of his heated cock pushed against her resistance. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, but in the midst of her reverie, and being far too slippery inside and out, in one fell swoop, he pushed inside.

 

    Papa held her hips tightly and made Beatrice bounce. Her eyes closed and she focused on the new sensation, but that wouldn’t do. “Cara, look at me,” he breathed onto her neck. When she did, she noticed that his eyes were dark with desire.

 

    He kept fucking her slow and deep, occasionally grazing his teeth on the sensitive flesh of her neck. She moaned and whined encouragingly; trying to keep quiet would only have been met with disapproval, after all. Soon, her head was thrown to the side to give him more access to her throat; his lips, tongue and teeth enthusiastically accepting the invitation.

 

    Still fully sheathed inside of her, Papa let go of her hips and worked to undo the ropes at her ankles. He reluctantly pulled out and stood. “Up, cara.” She did as she was told, using the bar her hands were still tied to as support for her legs, nearly numb from the previous position. Soon enough and without warning, he was back inside of her, his hips thrusting with a lot more verve than before. His hands took hold of her breasts and she yelped when he pinched her nipples, hard. His eyes were still fixed on her through the mirror, and by the look on his face, he was enjoying the show.

 

    Her legs were shaking and she shifted her weight to her forearms to try to steady herself. The stimulation was quite intense, pleasurable, yet not quite enough to bring her to orgasm. She wanted to ask him for more, to beg for his mercy, to let her come, but she knew very well that this was a punishment and he would not give in.

 

    Feeling close, he pulled out and faced her once more. She kneeled back, watching him stroke himself, and opened her mouth, tongue sticking out, expectant. But he shook his head with a grin, his eyes shining with mischief. “Your hands,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. She formed them into a cup as best as she could, given the way her wrists were tightly bound, and looked at him. He was going off script and she was unsure what to think of it.

 

    Soon he came, his semen pooling in her hands, and the look on his face was enough for her to know that whatever he was planning next, she would not enjoy. And indeed, she watched him dip his thumb in the sticky substance before holding it in front of her face. There was humor in his voice as he spoke: “Through this unholy anointing may Your Papa, with lust and mercy, help you with the favor of the Unholy Spirit.”

 

    In a falsely solemn mimicry of the Catholic ritual, Papa anointed Beatrice with his seed, first on her forehead, then her lips, on each of her breasts, and finally between her folds, all while she tried her best not to burst out laughing at the ridiculous situation she found herself in. She had known for a long time that Papa had a peculiar sense of humor, but this? This was taking the cake. When he was done, Papa wiped his hand on her ass and gave it a squeeze, before collapsing in his chair, spent, and closing his eyes.

 

                        ---------------------

 

    “Papa?”

 

    He had been in his seat for several minutes and was about to fall asleep when Beatrice’s voice brought him back from his drowsy state. “Yes, cara?” he replied, eyes still shut.

 

    “Are you gonna leave me here like this all night?” There was no accusation in her tone, only mild concern and the hint of a laugh.

 

    His eyes snapped open and Beatrice swore she heard him whisper “oh shit” as he stood up and rushed to untie her hands. “I’m terribly sorry, cara.” He was bowing apologetically, and she smiled, shaking her head fondly. She let him clean her up with the warm, damp towel he retrieved from the bathroom, before wrapping her in a blanket and helping her up.

 

    “That was a lot,” she said, leaning on his chest, exhausted.

 

    He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Too much?”

 

    She shook her head. “No, not too much. But let’s not do whatever that last thing was ever again. That was gross.”

 

    His laugh resonated in the room before he pressed a kiss on her hairline. “How about we take a bath?”

**Author's Note:**

> An immense thank you to rubrikate for editing this one, and to both her and ratsmacabre for the moral support (read: dealing with my bullshit) while I fought my way through it. And of course, thank you for taking the time to read this <3


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